


The Infinite Longing

by lixabiz



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Friends With Benefits AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-19 21:00:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5980780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lixabiz/pseuds/lixabiz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're sleeping together. It's not a big deal. (For an anonymous prompt on Tumblr: Friends with benefits AU.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Well, it wasn’t the worst party she’d ever been to, but it was most certainly _dull_.

On the plus side, the party givers hadn’t skimped on the amenities. There was enough champagne to keep Great Britain afloat should a meteorite hit earth and the ocean were to abruptly dry up as a result. Rose partook. Perhaps she partook a little _too_ zealously, but what else was there to do at boring fundraiser parties?

Roughly forty minutes in, she couldn’t take it anymore and made a beeline for the stairs.

There was a waiting line for the loo, so Rose bypassed it and wandered into a dark bedroom in search of an outlet to charge her mobile.

“Ooof.” She hit the floor, bum missing the bed by inches. Right. That was clearly a sign. She needed more champagne.

Someone burst into the room as she rolled over, trying to disentangle herself from the deathtrap that was the charger cord. The door slammed shut and a hand slapped at the light fixture. The room went dark. Her phone fell out of her hand.

“Oi,” said Rose indignantly, “I can’t see anything!”

There was a pause, and then a voice said, “Shite.” The lights came back on. “Bloody hell. Sorry, I didn’t realise there was someone in here-” The voice paused again, and then asked, perplexed, “Er. Where are you?”

A giggle rose in her throat.

Footsteps shuffled across the room, stopping at the other side of the bed. “Oh, good. A disembodied voice. The perfect metaphorical icing upon the shit cake that is tonight.”

“Tell me about it,” Rose said feelingly, and gave a small hiccup. “It’s all a bit lousy, innit?”

“Yeah.” The bed creaked, and there was a soft flump, the sound of someone sitting on the mattress. “Is it okay if I stay here, for a bit?”

She thought about it. The voice seemed nice enough. “OK.”

“Are you okay?”

“Reckon so.”

“Just out of curiousity, why are you down there?”

“I’m charging my mobile.”

“I see.”

“Mhm.”

“Must you do it from the floor?”

“No,” she admitted. “I fell. Now I can’t get up.”

“Oh.” The voice sounded concerned. “Did you want some help?”

She considered it, and then replied, “Nah.”

The carpet was really very plush. She’d enjoy this more, if not for the cord attempting to strangle her.

“You’re sure?”

“Yep.” She popped the p.

“If you’re sure.”

“Mhm.”

A few seconds ticked by, and then a few minutes. The bed creaked again, as her friendly voice shifted on it. Maybe he was lying down now. Maybe he’d come in here because he wanted to take a nap?

“You can turn the lights off again, if you want,” she offered. It wasn’t _her_ bedroom, after all. They could share. She could charge her phone in the dark.

“Do you want me to?”

She shrugged, and then giggled. Well, he couldn’t see that, could he? She was being silly.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing.” She hiccuped again, and then coughed. Blimey. Rose announced, “This cord is trying to kill me.”

“What?”

“My mobile cord,” she explained. “It’s become a noose.”

“That’s alarming. Are you sure you don’t want me to help you up?”

Rose thought about it. “Well. Maybe. I suppose.”

“OK. I’m coming to the rescue.”

“Ta.”

The nice voice said, “No problem,” and then it got closer, coming around the side of the bed to where Rose lay on her back. A dark shadow fell over her, cast by a very, very, very, very, very tall body. He was the tallest man she’d ever seen! She stared at him in amazement, and breathed, “Wow.”

“Hi,” said the very tall bloke, sounding amused.

His face came into focus, after that, and Rose sucked in a breath. She sat up straight, startling him.

“Oh cripes,” she said, yanking the cord away from her neck with an annoyed huff. “It’s _you_.”

He regarded her for a moment, confused. “Eh?”

She slumped against the bed and kicked up her heels with a sigh. Her skirt - which she realised now was perhaps a few inches too short, even for a fancy shindig - became even shorter as she crossed her ankles. 

“Of course,” Rose muttered, scowling at him when it became clear he had no idea what she was talking about. “This is just great.”

“Eh?”

“Am I being punished?” she asked the ceiling.

He bent over her, brow furrowed. “You’re not making sense.”

“Probably not. But it’s alright.”

The crease in his forehead deepened. “Is it?”

“After all, I’ve got a lovely personality,“ she said brightly, allowing herself a moment of triumph at the way his expression faltered, and then settled into dawning realisation.

—–

He’d known from the start the entire affair was a bad idea.

“Ever since she won the lottery she’s been unbearable,” he’d complained earlier to Shaun over his wine glass, “Just a complete menace!”

Shaun had taken a swig of his own drink, raising both eyebrows in a way that let John know he was in big shite before he even heard Donna’s voice ring out from behind them.

“A menace who throws fundraising parties for your research projects? A menace who invites the wealthiest people in England to throw money at your feet? That kind of menace?”

Oh, crap. He’d grimaced and turned, ready to pull his foot out of his mouth and grovel.

“Donna,” he’d begun, and that was as far as he got. She got her claws into him, after that, and had spent a good twenty minutes giving him a lecture. And then she’d delivered the coup de grace: _  
_

_“There’s someone here I want you to meet.”_

What was it he’d said, again?  
  
_"Sorry, but I’m not tempted in the least. I’m sure she’s got a lovely personality, but she’s not my type.”_  
  
“Give her a chance! You haven’t even spoken to her!”  
  
_“Don’t need to,”_ he’d replied, too quickly. _“Posh princess. Mustn’t have much between her ears, really.”_

He hadn’t meant it. He hadn’t even really looked at her. He’d been thinking of Reinette, and her text, and the way his stomach turned to lead every time he thought of her. She was probably in France by now, shaking the dust of England and John Smith off her immaculate socialite heels, while he was stuck in a closet with another blonde. One who probably thought he was a prick, and he couldn’t really blame her.

“Sorry,” he stammered. “That was- I didn’t-”

She lifted one eyebrow. “What?”

“I just don’t like being set up.” That was the truth. “Donna can be… overbearing.”

“It’s a good thing we weren’t being set up, then, innit?” She shot him a dazzling smile. “I’m pretty sure the only thing you’d want from me is my money, anyway.”

Christ, he thought, wincing. “That’s not-” She raised that eyebrow even higher. He sighed. “Oh, alright. Fine. You win. I’m a terrible arsehole and I deserve to be whipped.”

Maybe Reinette was right, after all. Maybe he _was_ a man-child, and his apparent inability to conduct himself ‘befittingly’ in public would always land him in situations like this. He looked down at Rose Tyler, but felt like he was the one who was two-feet tall.

Reinette was constantly saying that he should be more assertive of his position, which he was beginning to suspect was a thinly veiled hint that he should grow up. He didn’t understand why people kept saying that - he was grown up. He had a job, he had a house, he even had a car, though his license had been unfairly revoked. Temporarily. What they really meant, of course, was that he should grow stodgy. Cankerous. Boring. He had no intention of doing any of that.

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

Rose Tyler was peering at him, her expression oddly curious. As if she’d expected one thing, and had gotten something entirely different. She plucked at a tear in her stockings - the movement caught his eye, and then he was looking at her legs. He forced himself to look away.

“Blimey. You’re miserable. You’re not going to cry, are you?”

“No!”

She laughed. She was laughing at him. “Alright, mate. Don’t cry. Help me up, will you?”

—–

“Hey,” said Shaun, coming up to John as he came down the stairs, sweating profusely. “Donna’s been looking all over for you - she’s in a bad mood, mate.”

“So am I,” he retorted, annoyed. Rose Tyler stumbled away, still tipsy. He was secretly glad to see her go.

“One of the guests had an accident,” Donna’s beleaguered fiance added, sounding very weary. “She-” His mobile rang, and he answered, wincing at the volume of the speaker on the other end. “Yes, I found him.”

John felt his temples throbbing. “Give it to me.”

He seized the phone from Shaun, said, “Donna, thanks for your help, but I’m going home,” and promptly ended the call. He was about to toss the thing back when an incoming text caught his eye. It was from Aunt Sylvia, Donna’s mother. __  


_Poor John. Has he seen this yet?_

There was a link to an article. John opened it, thumb swiping down. A headline and a photo of sun, sand, and bodies in swimsuits stared back at him.

_REINETTE’S NEW MAN: NAUGHTY IN NICE?_

Shaun snatched the phone away, looking appalled, and opened his mouth to say something, but John shook his head. He turned away, only to come face to face with Rose Tyler again, who had been standing right behind him, looking over his shoulder.

“Oh,” she said, her tone of voice completely different now. “That’s how it is, eh?”

The night kept getting worse and worse. He thought furiously of a way to shake her off. He ought to just leave. Donna would be angry with him for it, but this was just getting to be too much. One man could only handle so much misery.

“C’mon.” Rose Tyler seized his arm. She snatched up a bottle of champagne from a passing waiter. “Let’s go hide again.”

—–

For the second time that night, John found himself in Donna’s walk-in closet, sitting on what was probably an expensive coat and wrinkling it beyond repair. He found himself taking turns taking swigs from a champagne bottle - bloody good stuff, it was - and venting all his frustrations to his newest, bestest friend.

Rose Tyler was fantastic. He should have listened to Donna! She was the best listener, and made the best sympathetic cooing noises, and laughed whenever he made a pun. He did have a weakness for them, and they somehow snuck in even when he was distressed.

She patted his chest with her hand, running it up and down his lapels every now and then, right over his heart. It was oddly comforting. A great surge of affection overcame him.

“You’re not too posh,” he said, his words slurring a bit. “You’re lovely.”

“Thank you,” she replied, head listing as if too heavy. It briefly landed on his shoulder and she rested her forehead there for a moment. The warm weight of it felt strange, unfamiliar, but not wholly unpleasant.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” she murmured.

Her hand was on his knee. That odd sensation suffused him again, accompanied by a heightened awareness of her breath against his chin, the way her hair felt soft even as it tickled his neck.

“Rose-” He felt heady with alcohol and uncertainty, flush with hope.

“Hey,” she said, eyes flicking from his mouth to his where her hand rested on his chest. “Let’s-”

And suddenly, they weren’t talking anymore.

—–

“So,” she said afterwards, bosom heaving, “That was-”

“Yeah,” said John in agreement, trying not to stare. It was very difficult. “That… _was_.”

“Mhmm.”

She sounded out of breath. He felt the same way, and also just the tinsiest bit proud of himself for putting that dazed expression on her face. He had never done such a thing in his entire life. He’d never, ever, ever thought of doing such a thing in his entire life. 

“Whose-,” she paused, biting her lip. (God, she’d done that earlier, too, at a crucial moment, and he’d almost lost his cool.)

“Whose, erm, bedroom d’you think this is?”

“I don’t know,” he lied. (He thought of Donna’s penchant for nice coats and how they’d most certainly ruined quite a number of them, and prayed for deliverance.)

Rose started to giggle. It was quite a nice sound.

Inexplicably, John found himself laughing, too.


	2. Chapter 2

“Hello darling,” said Clara breezily, sounding rather perky despite the time difference. She would be. She was on holiday, the lucky wretch. Her perfectly made up eyes widened as they took in the sight of Rose in bed. “Yikes.”

“Oh, ta very much,” Rose grumbled, shoving the duvet out of her face. Her laptop wobbled where it rested on her nightstand. “Why are we having a video call this early? I’ve half a mind to hang up after what you did - unloading that bloke on me!”

“Who? John?” Onscreen, Clara looked rather taken aback. “What’s the matter? He’s smashingly good-looking, John. Biochem department’s resident Dreamboat, with a capital D. All the undergrads have got wicked crushes on him, he’s very popular-”

“He’s got a girlfriend!” Rose retorted hotly.

“Eh? Don’t think so. Unless my sources were wrong, which I doubt. I’m pretty sure they broke up.”

“Well, no, he hasn’t got one anymore-” Rose admitted, “But he’s… _y’know_.”

“Damaged goods?”

Rose rolled her eyes. 

“I just thought you’d like him,” said Clara, sounding far too innocent. “And I thought he’d like you. Well? Go on, then! Give us the details!”

Rose told her the whole story, from his rude dismissal which she’d overheard to their snogging session in the dark bedroom and everything that happened in between. Clara listened with rapt attention, both her eyebrows high on her forehead by the time Rose was done.

“He looked so _sad_ ,” she said defensively. “Even _you_ would’ve-”

“Oh no,” her friend snorted, “No, I would _not_. You’re just a big softy.”

Rose opened her mouth to protest, but a beeping sound interrupted, informing her she had an incoming call on her mobile. She hit the mute button on the Skype window. “Hold on- hello?”

“Hi,” said a voice, one that took her a moment to place. “It’s me. I mean, John. John Smith. From… the party.”

Rose sat up in bed. Clara’s mouth moved soundlessly on her laptop screen, still chattering away.

“Hi,” she said, lifting a finger to her lips. Silent Clara scowled. She didn’t take direction well, that one.

John Smith asked, “Is this a bad time?”

“No, no. I just- I wasn’t expecting you to call, that’s all.”

“Oh. Well… you told me to.”

She had, indeed. Clara was right. That was her problem: she was just too soft when it came to sad-looking blokes. He’d looked so _bereft_ and one thing had led to another, and then the next thing she knew, she was giving him her phone number and telling him to call her if he needed to talk.

“Hello? Are you still there?”

“Yep.” Rose cleared her throat. “Thanks for, um, calling.”

“About last night,” he began, voice thick with dread, but Rose interrupted him. Clara was gesturing distractingly onscreen. Rose had no idea what she was saying.

“Hold on a sec-” She hit the unmute button.

“-and if he’s such a drag, forget it happened,” her friend was advising, “You can’t fix everyone’s problems, you know-”

“I’m not trying to. And I have to go, it’s him on the line.”

“What?” Clara sounded incredulous. “You’re talking to him?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna hang up-”

“Call me back!”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Rose, and closed her laptop screen.  “Sorry. You still there?”

“Yeah. I’m here.”

“How’s your head?”

She fancied she could hear him wince over the line. He said, sounding pained, “Not wonderful. Yours?”

Like someone had removed her brain and replaced it with a wad of cotton wool soaked in sludge.

“I’ve been better,” she replied. “You alright?”

“Fine.”

He managed somehow to imbue the single word with unreasonable amounts of nerves, melancholy, desolation and hangover. Poor sod. It was like kryptonite, immediately firing up all her instincts to coddle him. She barely knew him, that was true, but given the circumstances it was her civic duty to help, wasn’t it?

“Look, if you’re calling to apologize, you don’t have to. You’ve just been dumped. I know how that feels.”

Did she ever. This Reinette of his sounded like a piece of work, but Rose had him beat by miles. Her ex had dated her for her trust fund, nicked her credit card, charged a weekend’s worth of hotel expenses and expensive lingerie for another woman on it, and then told her ‘she just wasn’t his type’ when confronted.

“Been there, done that,” Rose added, with a heartfelt sigh.

“Oh, god.” His voice became muffled, as though he’d just buried his face in his hands.

Hastily, she said, “Not gonna pressure you into anything, but if you need someone to talk to, or a shoulder to cry on-”

“I wasn’t going to cry,” he interrupted, flustered.

“It’s okay for blokes to cry. Clara says hypermasculinity is toxic to us all.”

“Does she?”

“Yeah.”

“Is this Clara Oswald we happen to be talking about?”

“Yes. She’s my friend. How do you think I came to that party of yours?”

“I thought Donna invited you.”

“She invited my Mum, who didn’t feel like attending. Clara made me go instead.”

“Oh.”

There was a pause on the line. A niggling worry ate at her. People did stupid things when they were heartbroken. _People did stupid things, period,_ she thought, correcting herself. Like, for instance, drunkenly snogging someone who’d just been dumped in someone else’s walk-in closet.

“You’re sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” he said. “I’m always fine.”

It didn’t sound very convincing.

“That’s good.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

There was another awkward pause as Rose tried to think of something to say. She’d taken advantage of him in his weakened state last night, after all. Snogged him while he was down. Surely some responsibility was due on her part.

“Could you do me a favour?” he asked.

“Yeah?”

“Could you forget everything I said to you last night?”

Well, then. Nevermind.

—–

Life went on as usual, as it should do, drunken snogging a mere blip on the radar. It wasn’t the first time, Rose reflected, and probably wouldn’t be the last. Clara emailed Donna, who emailed Jackie, who sent a cheque to John Smith’s University department head, and soon the college would have a brand new Pete Allen Tyler Memorial Building.

Everything was fine, except for the messages she kept getting from a number she didn’t recognize. They trickled in at odd times of day, early mornings or late afternoon and at first she simply ignored them, giving each a cursory glance before deleting.

_There wasn’t a point to Crete, was there?_

_I’d rather not speak on the phone, either, but we need to sort some things out._

_Shall I toss your shoes into the bin, then?_

They became increasingly cold and curt, until Rose finally got a nagging sensation that not all was right. She began to suspect she knew who was sending them.

Two days later, she woke to another text message, dated 3:36AM:

_I’ll leave the key with the receptionist at your office. No need to bother with a courier_

_You can mail the ring to my office._

Oh bloody hell, she thought.

—–

On Sunday, Rose had a missed call and a new message that didn’t make any sense.

_Need change. Hurry. Central Wash._

Twenty minutes later Rose found herself in Queensway, pulling open a door beneath a sign that proclaimed the establishment to be “THE FIRST COIN OPERATED LAUNDRETTE IN THE UK”. Upon entering, she spotted his lanky form bent over a washer immediately.

Rose walked over and tapped him on the back. He turned, face registering surprise as she slapped five pounds into his open palm, saying, “Sorry. S’all I got. Parking metre rates are outrageous in West London.”

She looked around, ignoring the way he gaped dumbly at her. “I’ve never been in here before. Sign says it’s been around since 1949. Is this place historic?”

He found his voice at last, and it was part dazed, part incredulous. “What are _you_ doing here?”

Rose gave him a funny look. She lifted her mobile and shook it. “You texted me, begging for change?”

“Oh.” He flinched, jaw going slack, and ran a hand through his dishevelled hair. “Oh, blimey. I’m sorry. That wasn’t- I didn’t mean to- I sent that to you by mistake.”

Oh dear. He really had no clue, did he?

There was a pause as he looked at her, flabbergasted. “Why would you…?”

Rose felt like fidgeting, but fought the urge down, not really sure why she’d answered the summons, even after working out whose number it had come from. Curiosity, and perhaps a touch of rebellion, sparked by Clara’s implication that she was too much of a busybody goody-two-shoes.

“You said to hurry. Seemed like an emergency.”

He looked rather mortified, standing there in a grey sweatshirt and worn jeans. Dark circles lined his eyes, and there was several days worth of beard on his jaw. “No, I ran out of money, and the change machine is out of service, and I panicked…”

“Well, now you have money,” she said brightly, gesturing at his palm. “Go on.”

John cleared his throat as the washer behind him dinged it’s completion. He turned, stiffly, and Rose watched as he transferred his sodden pants to a dryer machine. A white pair with pink hearts on them caught her eye. She pretended not to notice as he hurriedly shoved wet clothing away, and tossed her change into the clanking machine.

He returned to the bench, holding the remaining pound. Awkwardly he asked, “Want a coffee?”

“Sure,” she agreed.

He went to the vending machine in the corner, looked at the offerings, and scratched his head. He came back. “There’s no milk. Black coffee okay?”

“Sure,” said Rose.

He went to fetch it, slid a pound into the slot, and frowned. He came back once more and mumbled, “Not enough change.”

“That’s okay.” Reaching slowly into her pocket, Rose fished about for more coin, but he shook his head, mouth flattening into a grim line.

“No,” he said firmly, staying her hand. “Just wait here.”

And he ran off. Right out of the coin laundrette, leaving her staring through the shop front window at his back as he crossed the street. A few minutes later, he returned, holding a Starbucks cup, which he thrust at her along with a paper bag full of pastry.

“I thought you didn’t have money?”

“I have money,” he replied, looking embarrassed. “Just didn’t have any coins.”

She took a sip of the scalding coffee and took a peek inside the bag. A chocolate croissant. “Ta. Was feeling a bit peckish.”

He shrugged. She bit into the croissant, and offered him a bite as well. He declined with a nod of the head, indicating that it was hers to finish and in the process his eyes fell on her mouth, no doubt recalling the last time they’d been in each other’s presence. Rose felt vaguely hot all of a sudden. She shook it off, and said between bites, “You always come here, then?”

“No. This- it’s temporary. I just moved.”

Ah. Rose gathered the ex had got the washer and dryer in the split, then.

“Sorry,” he said, staring into the whirling mass of grey and brown spinning in the rotating drum. “Sorry for bothering you. And thanks. For coming.”

“Anytime.” Her mobile was burning a hole in her pocket. Slowly, she withdrew it, and said- “By the way…”

—–

At 10:53PM, he sent, _I’m so sorry for bothering you. It won’t happen again. I’ll delete your number._

She sent back, _That’s not necessary._

_-Of course it is. I’m such a wanker._

_-No you’re not!_

_-I am. Undoubtedly so._

_-Well, you’re a very nice, very polite wanker, then. If that helps._

His reply was delayed in coming, and all it said was: _Thanks._

—–

Two weeks went by, in which Rose didn’t think - much - about John Smith or his broken heart. Then on Sunday her mobile beeped, and she was a little disconcerted to feel her heart do a funny little flip when she checked to see who it was from.

_Spare any change?_

For someone who was newly single, Rose thought, he sure did a lot of laundry. She closed her umbrella and stood it carefully by the entrance, hoping no one would notice the puddle gathering on the floor. The noisy rumbling of multiple washers working at full blast greeted her. As did the tall figure leaning against the dryer at the far end of the shop. He waved, straightening slightly as she walked towards him.

“Hullo.”

“Hi.”

“Coin machine’s still broken,” he explained, and caught the roll of 50p she tossed at him with both hands. “Thanks.”

“You can buy me another coffee.”

His mouth lifted, a little, just at the corner. It wasn’t a smile, but it was something close to one. “Gladly.”

They chatted idly as John finished his chore. He seemed more talkative this time, almost as if he’d been itching to have a conversation. _Poor bugger_ , she thought.

A bloke in a raincoat came into the shop and made a beeline for the change machine. It clanged noisily as it worked, spitting out coins at a rapid pace. John busied himself folding his shirts, avoiding Rose’s gaze.

She wondered if maybe he didn’t have any other friends? How sad was that?

He broke the silence first, picking up his hefty basket to face her. “Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“How d’you feel about chinese?”

“Hm?”

“Instead of coffee. If you want.”  

She brushed a lock of damp hair behind her ear, and thought about it before answering. “Chips are better.”

“Chips it is,” he said.

—–

They got the chips and John took her back to his flat, dumping his laundry in a corner. Rose thought that rather defeated the purpose of cleaning them if he was just going to leave them in piles to get wrinkled and gather dust, but whatever.

He offered her a drink and the sofa, which she accepted, and turned on a film. It felt oddly normal, like something she might do with Clara, or Mickey, or any other one of her friends.

He hadn’t thought to bring two mugs. Or perhaps he only had the one left; the others packed and gone, or too rife with memory to be used by him or a stranger. He offered the lone cup to Rose, and perched on the sofa like an uneasy child on his best behaviour. There was something very lonely in the gesture, and she felt the feeling resonate within her in a way she couldn’t quite understand. _I’m not lonely,_ she thought, frowning, and tried to focus on the movie.

They weren’t sitting close to one another, but the sofa was small and he felt large next to her. Rose glanced sideways at John’s profile during a particularly boring action scene, and thought, _Lord, he’s awfully pretty, isn’t he?_ He really was. It was a shame he was so obviously still hung up on his ex.

Oh well. Not that she wanted a bloke at the moment, anyway. _Just parts of him_ , her mate Shareen’s voice said slyly in her head. (Shareen was always the little devil perched on her shoulder, which made Clara the little angel on the other. If Clara knew, she’d probably break a rib laughing.)

“What?” he asked, catching her staring. The light of the film - reds and blues and pinks - flashed off his face, highlighting his features and making his Adam’s apple stand out in the dark room.

Rose looked away. “Nothing.”

( _You have needs_ , Devil!Shareen said. _Natural, womanly, long-ignored needs._ )

“Something the matter?”

“No. Film’s a bit boring, that’s all.”

“Oh. Sorry. Shall we watch something else? Do you want to pick?”

He held the remote out, giving her a hopeful, worried look that even abandoned puppy dogs couldn’t compete with. _Good grief._

“No, it’s fine. You’re enjoying it.”

He looked embarrassed. “But you aren’t- it’s all right, you can pick something else, I’ve got Netflix too-”

“It’s fine, John. We don’t have to watch anything.” She said, slowly, “You know, the offer still stands. If you want to talk about it. Might help.”

He was stoically still, not breathing a word.

Rose asked, taking the plunge he was reluctant but sorely needed to, “How long were you together?”

“Two years,” he answered, even though she thought he wouldn’t.

That wasn’t _too_ bad, she thought. Could be worse. Still, two years was plenty of time to have your heart completely stolen and then smashed to pieces.

“I knew her for four years before that, though.”

She cringed inwardly, and made a sort of sympathetic noise.

He shrugged. “Saw it coming, if I’m honest.”

Though the remark invited continued conversation, his tone of voice suggested otherwise. Rose took the hint, and let the subject drop.

A few minutes passed. Then, abruptly, he asked, “Am I bothering you?”

“What?”

“I’m sorry I lied, earlier. About the change machine being broken, I mean. I don’t know why-” He ran a hand through his hair, sentence breaking off. “Sorry. I’m such an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot.”

“I am.” He groaned, rubbing his face. “You barely know me, and I’ve made a terrible first - third - impression, and I don’t know what I was thinking, inviting you here to this dump of a flat! God, I’m a moron! I’m a bloody stupid moron, and you’re just so _kind_ and it doesn’t bloody help that I can’t stop thinking about that night, either-”

He froze, mid-sentence, seeming to realise what he’d just said aloud. He turned to look at her, horrified. “I- that’s-”

Rose tried so hard, she really did, but the expression of utter terror on his face made her giggle. He stared, his horror growing.

“Sorry,” she said, biting her lip. “It’s just the look on your face - oh, don’t, I’m not angry or anything. It was a memorable night.”

John shifted, his face still a mask of apprehension and discomfort. She found herself looking at his profile again, the shape of his frowning mouth catching her eye. A tiny tingle began at the very centre of her cupid’s bow, in remembrance of how his lips had felt against her own.

Rose sighed, aware of the growing tension that ate at her insides. They were obviously compatible in that department. Annoyingly enough, her last two boyfriends had not been quite as successful at igniting her loins over the course of months and years as John had in under twenty minutes. Which was a bit frightening when she really thought about it, considering he’d been drunk and miserable at the time, and it had mostly been snogging that veered into second base.

She forced herself to focus on John, and his very real depression. She said, kindly, “You’re lonely. I understand. I don’t mind keeping you company, at all.”

He frowned harder, the crease deepening in his brow. “You should mind.”

“Nope.”

On impulse, she leaned forward, and pressed her lips gently to his. She squeezed his bicep in tandem with the kiss. It was meant to be an encouraging gesture - simply a way of saying ‘you’ll get through this, don’t worry’ - but when she made to pull away, she felt his hand move to the small of her back and press against it to keep her in position. His mouth brushed against hers again, slow, tentative. Heat rose inside her along with vague shock as he nipped at her mouth, stealing a longer kiss, and then yet another. It felt familiar, and jarring, the memory somehow proving to be a distancing factor. Rose withdrew with a little sigh, knowing they didn’t have the excuse of being drunk this time.

“Shouldn’t have done that,” she said, biting her lip.

“Sorry.” His eyes opened slowly. The effect was oddly mesmerising, like a snake charmer lifting the lid of his basket to reveal what lay underneath.

_Trouble_ , she thought, breath catching as his hand gingerly moved along her back. A shiver passed through her skin where he touched her, and suddenly she was closing the gap again. His fingers bunched in the fabric of her top as she swept her tongue slowly along his lower lip. All her girly bits began to tingle when he opened his mouth in response, tongue experimentally meeting hers with a brief stroke.

Now the memories truly began to cascade back, rushing like a waterfall over her. He was a good kisser. He kissed like he wanted to taste her, like he wanted to thoroughly explore every contour of her mouth in order to figure out how to please her best. He definitely pleased, and soon her entire body was clamouring for more.

Rose pulled away again, thinking, _what am I doing?_ but he did that ridiculously appealing slow blink once more, those sad eyes of his looking dreamy and intense, pupils dilated… and she was lost.

Her hands moved from where they rested on his shoulders down lower, trailing from his collar to the top button of his oxford. She plucked at it, and said, “Is this okay?”

A breath hitched in his chest - she felt it, under her fingertips - and then he nodded quickly, hands clenching on her hips. Rose took the unspoken hint and shifted, climbing properly into his lap. Her hands toyed with the buttons of his shirt, tugging at them but not pulling them free, slipping her fingers between each space, feeling the skin of his chest break into goose bumps.

His eyes were hooded, his body hot. She kissed his jaw, and then his neck, and then traced the shell of his ear with her tongue. Beneath her thighs she felt the heat of him, causing another shiver. Rose shifted to angle herself above his rigid bulge, but he stopped her, lifting his hand to her breasts and cradling them. The fabric of her t-shirt suddenly seemed flimsy, easily tugged down to reveal one pebbled nipple. He drew it into his mouth, tongue swirling around the sensitive peak, and Rose moaned.

She shifted again, with urgency, and this time he let her, still teasing her breasts with his lips and teeth. She seated herself directly on him, rolling her hips, bringing his hard bulge into direct contact with her clit. It felt rough and delicious through the layers of their clothing - just enough friction to make the lack of touching skin to skin bearable.

He thrust up as she ground down on him, moving her hips in circles, tighter and tighter, faster and faster, until the friction became too hard and good and she trembled, mouth opening in harsh ‘ _oh, oh, oh_ ’s that made him move even more fervently against her.

Rose threw her head back and looked down at him in shock as her orgasm tingled through her body, from head to curled toes. It seemed to go on for ages, drawn out by his continued motions, intent on endlessly teasing out her moment of pleasure.

He waited for her to finish, breathing hard - god, he was hard, definitely hard - she could feel him almost bursting out of his trousers, still pressed up against her, clearly struggling not to thrust again, waiting for her cue for what was to come next.  

Rose bit her lip. Slowly, she reached down, hand slipping to his zipper, lowering it tooth by tooth….

—–

They shagged. With clothes on (sort of), but it still counted. He bolted afterwards in a mad panic, telling her to lock up when she left, and Rose let him.

She waited it out, feeling the situation was funny in a surreal sort of way, and also abstractedly thought whilst tidying up his sofa cushions - _but I haven’t got a key?_

Ten minutes later he came back, looking ashamed and holding a bouquet of slightly wilted yellow roses he’d bought from a nearby petrol station. It was the saddest thing Rose had ever seen.

“You can cry,” she told him, in all earnesty. “I don’t mind, really.”

Strangely enough, that made him laugh instead. Sadly, yes, but a laugh was a laugh, and she counted it as a victory.

—–

Rose made up her mind the following day, after going home, taking a bath, and getting some of the best sleep she’d had in ages. She hadn’t realised just how much she missed sex. _Good_ sex, that was.

There was nothing for it but to proceed.

They’d crossed the boundaries, and it had been brilliant, and Rose felt, in a way, responsible. She would see it through, help him back into the game, and get some relief for herself in the meanwhile.

Because - she told her reflection in the bathroom mirror firmly - sex didn’t mean _romance_. She wasn’t so naive as to think it didn’t equate feelings, because it usually did, but her feelings for John Smith would remain firmly rooted in friendship and caring. Not more. Not less, either, because you had to feel _something_ for a bloke to get into bed with him. It was folly otherwise, no matter what women’s magazines said.

Clara’s eyebrows had reached stratospheric heights on Skype. A new record.

“He’s using you,” she said flatly.

“Well, I’m using him right back.”

“I didn’t realise his relationship was that serious. She never showed up at any of the Uni dos, not even once. My colleague even tried to introduce us because she thought he was single.”

Oh. Something suddenly occurred to Rose, something she hadn’t even stopped to think about. Clara often joked about such things, but what if she’d been serious?

‘Smashingly good looking’, she’d said. Sure, she’d gone out of her way to set them up, but what if that was just… Clara being Clara? What if Rose had been supposed to reject the offering and see it for what it really was? Clara pushing away another chance at-

“You’re not… upset, are you?”

“Well, I’m a bit concerned-” her friend intoned. “This could be a disaster for you. He’s clearly on the rebound.”

Rose opened her mouth to argue that she knew this fact very well for herself, and that it didn’t matter, because she wasn’t trying for anything other than, well, _benefits._

“Now I wish I’d taken him to that blasted party myself.”

Rose looked at her, a bit fearful. “Really?”

“No, not really.”

“Well, you could.”

“You know I couldn’t.” She gave a flippant smile, but it looked brittle at the edges.

She could, and she would, Rose vowed to herself. It was just a matter of time. She wanted to say something, something helpful and sensitive that would make Clara smile, but as always it eluded her. She’d tried, time and time again, to find that magical fix-all sentence and still hadn’t managed even a word.

Some losses could not be spoken of, not even among the closest of kindred spirits. Two years since the car accident. Two years of Danny’s absence, still felt as keenly today as it had felt on that terrible afternoon.

Rose changed the subject. “He’s coming round tomorrow. We’re going to go jogging together.”

Clara regarded her with doubt. “I know he’s pretty, but are you _sure?_ ”

—–

It was a beautiful sunny morning. At 6AM John showed up on her doorstep bearing a huge bouquet of flowers, which was a strange juxtaposition of a sight given he was wearing joggers and threadbare nike trainers to go with them.

“You don’t have to bring flowers every time you see me,” Rose said.

He looked uncertain and a little crestfallen. “I thought you liked them.”

“I do.”

“Can’t they be friendship flowers, then?”

Rose took the flowers from him, and stuck them in a vase. She pecked him on the cheek and smiled, “I s’pose so.”

The running was kind of fun. She didn’t get much exercise in these days, and perhaps it was a good idea to start getting fit again, if she was going to embark on a no-strings sex-only relationship with one of the fittest blokes she’d ever met.

“Same time next week?” he asked, jogging her to her door.

She nudged him inside and put a bottle of water from the freezer in his hand. “Sure.”

He drank from it slowly and perused the magnets on her fridge. While he studied the photos of her vacation in Japan - particularly the one of Clara wielding a giant ceremonial Katana twice her size, everyone always looked at that one - she helped herself to breakfast.

“You have a nice flat,” he said, politely.

“Thanks.”

“Nice, uh, colour scheme.”

“Mhm.”

“Did you pick these tiles out yourself? They’re very nice.”

“My mum did,” said Rose, waiting for him to get to the point.

He seemed to run out of comments on her decor and sat, gingerly, on the chair opposite her stool.

She lifted her spoon of greek yogurt and berries at him. “Want some?”

“No thanks.”

Silence descended. Rose licked the remnants of her breakfast off her spoon, and stood to clear it away.

“About what happened,” John began, looking apprehensive. She paused, waiting for him to continue. He’d clearly spent all morning working up the nerve to broach the subject. “It was-”

God, she hoped he wasn’t about to say ‘a huge mistake’.

“-it was wonderful, and I-”

Well, that was something. She nodded encouragingly.

“-I’m sorry. I don’t usually do _that_. I mean… nothing wrong with _that_ , but I… what I’m trying to say is…”

“Don’t apologize.” She paused, thought, _what the hell_ , and flung it out there, hoping he’d catch the ball. “Do you want to do it again?”

His head snapped up. “What?”

“D’you want to have sex again?”

“I must be hearing things,” he said, shaking his head. “I just heard you say-”

“I’m not looking for a relationship,” she said, in case he was getting the wrong message. “You are not ready for a new relationship.”

“No?”

“Nope.”

“Right.”

“It’s just sex,” she said.

He boggled, she almost laughed. But she didn’t, because it might frighten him off. His eyes went wider and then dark, as she prompted, “That okay with you?”

John swallowed, thickly. She waited. Then, slowly, he gave a small nod.

Well, she hadn’t expected him to say no. Men usually didn’t say no to sex.

“Alright, then,” said Rose, and climbed into his lap.


	3. Chapter 3

_Here’s my number. I’m a good listener, honest._

Well, it wasn’t worth rehashing, and he was tired of feeling like a desperate, miserable sod.

It wasn’t as though he was surprised. He’d seen it coming. Seen the writing on the wall, so to speak, probably as early as when he’d bought that ring six months ago and doubted himself the entire time.

It hadn’t just been the usual ‘is she going to like it’ or ‘when is it going to be the right time to ask’ sort of doubt, which pervaded general discourse on the subject, be it with friends or even online. (Sometimes a bloke needed an objective point of view, and Donna wasn’t the most objective of friends). No, it had been a sleepless, worrisome doubt, one that gnawed at him until the night he finally did do the asking. 

He’d bought the damn thing, hadn’t he? It was what he _wanted_.

The split second of terror on her face hadn’t escaped him, even if it had been quickly masked and covered with kisses and ‘yes’ and wine. 

Then the longer and longer periods between seeing one another. Drifting apart. Calls that dwindled to voicemails and then to text messages. Feeling as if he’d been tossed aside, and yet… relief, in a tiny corner deep down.

And, at last, the accusation that he’d only been playing a part, pretending to care, all the while refusing to grow or change. They couldn’t make a life together, Reinette used to say, if he wouldn’t make room for her in his life. He’d been stunned by this. He had never made as much room in his life for anyone as he had done for Reinette. He’d bought a house, and let her decide how he ought to decorate it. He’d given up teaching to pursue research, because she thought he could do better, aim higher, become a leader in his field.

 _How much room did she need?_ he’d asked, furious. _How much more could she take?_

She took off for France a few days after the row. She stayed there for a month and a half, during which time he realised that her absence wasn’t a threat. It was a message: I don’t need you. He’d got it, loud and clear. It was the last time he’d ever make the mistake of thinking any woman needed him.

—–

John dumped the contents of the third drawer from the top of his bedroom dresser into a bin bag, and took it to the curb. He felt, for one moment, absolutely vindicated and utterly free. The moment passed, and then he found himself at a sudden loss.

He gathered his still clean clothes into a laundry bag and fired off a message before he lost his nerve.

—–

Honestly, the likeliness of ever seeing Rose Tyler again, much less inviting her back to his dingy new flat was something he’d not considered. But here she was, sitting next to him, having come to his rescue with her roll of 50p. After several embarrassing meetings, he wasn’t sure why she was even giving him the time of day.

To be fair, girls always liked him at first - he was aware of that. He’d never had trouble there. He was also vaguely aware of the fragility of his charm, which seemed to work up until a certain point before losing it’s appeal. There was something essentially unmalleable inside him, untenable, and the loss of Reinette confirmed it. Still, it wasn’t a stretch of the imagination that Rose Tyler might fancy him - except for the fact that all his encounters with her had not been during his best moments.

She was just the sort of person, he reckoned, who had a hard time saying no. And he was weak. He was weak, and lonely, and not above using his pathetic-ness to garner the sympathies of a pretty girl. A pretty girl who was kind and sweet and a good kisser.

A really, really good kisser.

The way she came on his lap was one of the hottest things he’d ever seen. It felt like a dream - the kind had by a gangly thirteen year old version of himself in a too small twin bed - imagining the feel of the palm working on him belonging to someone else, someone blonde and gorgeous and soft.

It hadn’t been a dream. Rose Tyler had, unequivocally,  given him the best handjob of his entire life.

And what did he do?

He bloody _ran_ , of course - guilt and embarrassment spurring the flight response.

Now, two weeks later, John thanked every higher power and benevolent deity there was that he’d come back, and that she’d stayed.

—–

_D’you want to have sex again?_

“All right, then,” she said, and plopped herself into his lap.

He was stunned. An embarrassingly squeaky, _“Really?”_ issued itself from his throat as Rose placed both her hands on his shoulders and looked at him, eyes like molten pools of… chocolate? (The metaphor lacked, but he was distracted, and no one had ever accused him of being a poet, anyway.)

Rose flipped her hair over her shoulder. “Yeah?”

Her hand trailed down to rest over his chest, where he knew she surely could feel his heart pounding, trying to beat its way out. The mood altered in that split second, as it always seemed to between them, and suddenly he found he didn’t care much about being nervous or surprised.

Rose Tyler was sitting in his lap, _again_ , and _fucking hallelujah_ , to be quite honest. She pressed herself against him, against where he was already growing hard. He groaned and let her do what she wanted, which was to sweep her tongue inside his mouth. He ran his hands along her thighs and cupped her truly excellent bottom through her yoga pants.

When she broke the kiss for air, he asked - because he always had to, never could leave a good thing alone or unpicked at- “Are you sure?”

“Yep.”

“Why?”

“I haven’t had sex in over a year.”

“Oh.”

Her expression softened, guilt passing briefly over her flushed face. “If you’re not comfortable, we can stop. I’m not trying to- don’t force yourself.”

She made to withdraw from his lap, and he panicked, hands instinctively clutching at her hips.

“I’m not forcing myself,” he said, just before Rose started kissing him again.

He allowed himself to sink into her, enjoy the warmth of her body and it’s delicious weight. She smelled wonderful, like shampoo and sweetness and sweat, and her tongue performed wonders inside his mouth.

 _She wants this,_ he marveled, whilst losing himself in the kiss. That seemed like a miracle in and of itself. The kissing became more, as it had the previous time, slowly igniting every nerve in his body. He felt his body tighten, erection swelling, and Rose moaned into his mouth, grinding herself against his hips. She bore down on him harder, rocking back and forth on his lap, her gratification clearly already starting to build just as quickly as his own was.

It took him a while to realise she was saying something into his ear. Be barely heard it above his own laboured breathing. It sounded like- “Counter, counter-”

John stared down at her. At some point her lycra vest top had disappeared, along with the sports bra she’d been wearing underneath. Voice rough-edged with lust, he asked, “What?”

“Chair’s not sturdy enough,” Rose muttered, sliding off him, making him ache. She grasped his hand and dragged him over to the counter - he helped her onto it without knowing what he was doing - he was far too stunned by the situation. It might also have something to do with the fact that he was so bloody hard he couldn’t think straight. Her legs fell open, cradling his hips, and he kissed her, hard, until she pushed him away.

“I haven’t got any-” she said, laying a hand on his chest, to stop him. For a minute, he didn’t understand. Then he did.

Everything screeched to a halt. John felt faint.

“Wallet?” she asked hopefully.

“No,” he replied with anguish. He hadn’t even brought a ten pound note. The reality was horrifyingly unfortunate: Rose Tyler was up on her kitchen counter, legs spread, top off, _and he didn’t have a bloody condom on him._

—–

_Twenty-four hours later-_

He rang the doorbell; just _once_ , and it opened as if the person behind it had been expecting him, or waiting for him-

He was dragged inside by the end of his work tie, a silly little thing covered in the digits of Pi in a swirly pattern, and pulled into the kitchen. Then he was kissing, or being kissed, which amounted to the same thing, really. Rose was small and sweet and warm in his arms, clad in a silky sort of robe thing which barely covered her bottom. Brilliant.

John lifted her onto the counter next to the sink. Things got heated after that, clothes - his, mainly - were shed, and a critical sort of… _point_ was reached. Ahem.

“Wait-” he exclaimed, and dived for his trousers.  

John opened his wallet and fished out five, six, eight, the whole damn box, he’d shoved it all in there. Rose turned, reaching for the cookie jar at the same time - and when she was facing him again he saw what she had in her palm - a handful of foil packets. They stared at each other for a second, and then burst out laughing in tandem.

“I thought you’d changed your mind,” she said, slowly. “Wasn’t sure you’d show.”

“I thought you might change yours,” he replied.

“Nope.”

“Me neither.”

“Good thing we have enough condoms, then.” Rose smiled widely at him, her tongue peeking out between her teeth. She was _gorgeous_.

“A touch overzealous, perhaps.”

“Well, they do get a bit redundant after one use.”

Oh. Wow. He wasn’t sure if he felt flattered or under pressure. He played it cool, and ripped open one packet, placing a second one within arm’s reach. Rose smiled, reaching out to put a finger under his chin, guiding him closer to her.

“I think we were just about here,” she said, and opened her legs.

—–

_Two weeks later-_

‘Fantastic’ would be the best choice of word for the situation. Followed by ‘unreal’, and ‘happily distracting’.  John really hadn’t expected anything more to come of what had happened that first night in his flat. He knew it had been a pity shag, anyway. But the second time… and the third… ?

He wanted to ask: _why me?_

A cleverer part of him admonished, _don’t jinx it._

He didn’t exactly know what the rules were, having always been in monogamous, relationships where his role had always been clearly designated. Boyfriend. Fiance. It seemed rude to just pop over for - _that._

“Do you want to go out for dinner?” he suggested cautiously, calling her in the middle of the afternoon and hoping it wasn’t too presumptuous of him to expect her to be free.

“Sorry,” she said. “I’m at the supermarket. Tell you what, if you’re hungry, you can come over and I’ll feed you.”

He asked, “Which supermarket?”

Half an hour later, he found her in the frozen food section, looking at pasta entrees. TV dinners with Rose Tyler still beat sitting alone in his kitchen eating a big Mac.

“Lasagne or chicken penne?” Rose asked, holding up two frozen dinners. “And don’t make a peep about this being my idea of cooking, because I’ll smack you.”

“Lasagne,” he replied, promptly, and took the cart from her. “I’ll push. You do your shopping.”

“Lovely.” Rose gave him a stunning smile. “Oooh, satsumas are on offer-!”

He watched as she bounced into the next aisle, zealously tossing two bags of the little oranges into the cart. She caught him looking. “What? It’s a good bargain.”

“Course it is.”

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said, putting grapes and blueberries into the cart. Her tone was practiced, as if this was a dialogue she’d given many times before. “But I’m not rich. I have a trust fund - which I can’t touch a cent of until I’m old and wrinkly, anyway. Before my dad died, his company had just started making money. We used to live on an estate when I was a baby, never had much, and Mum sort of went a bit crazy. She bought all sorts of stuff. Expensive clothes, tvs, computers - Dad was worried I’d end up being irresponsible with money, so he made sure I wouldn’t just inherit a load of cash the second I turned 18.”

“Oh.” He wanted to say something more intelligent than that, but didn’t know what was fitting.

This was, he realised, the first time Rose had revealed anything personal to him. He filed the information away, added it to the mental roster of things he knew about her, a sort of inner tallying in the column marked “ROSE”.

They were friends who shagged, and there wasn’t anything wrong with that. But as a niggling part of him also known as his conscience repeatedly pointed out, friendship was give and take. Friendship was sharing, knowing, and caring for each other, and though he would be careful not to let the lines get muddled, he felt he was sorely behind in those things.

Rose was still speaking. “Obviously Mum bought the flat for me. I work on the Charity Board at the company - for Vitex. I do get paid for it. How are you liking that new wing?”

“It doesn’t exist yet.”

“I’ll be there to cut the ribbon,” she said cheekily, and then made a face as they went further down the aisle. “My god! Look at how much they’re charging for eggs! Was gonna buy you some chips to go with that lasagne but never mind, I can’t afford it anymore.”

He wasn’t sure if this was a joke. “We could get a bag of frozen-”

“Don’t even say it-” she shrieked, slapping him on the arm. “That’s blasphemy! I’m tempted to put these eggs back and just take you to the chippy down the block but that would be irresponsible.”

“I won’t tell.”

She grinned.

Out of curiosity, John prompted, “Chips or ice cream?”

“Chips.”

“Chips or cake?”

“Chips.”

“Chips or-”

_“Chips.”_

John laughed. “They aren’t exactly the most nourishing or healthy food option.”

“I don’t care.”

“Granted, they are made of potatoes. You could live on just potatoes and milk, if you wanted. Got all the nutrients you need.”

She reached for a carton of skim, setting it in the cart. “That’s better.”

“I give great potato talk,” he said solemnly.

Rose grinned. “You sure do.”

“Want to hear more?”

“Oh, please. Do go on.”

—-

Sometimes it wasn’t about knowing, but about giving.

“Potatoes,” said John, flicking open the top button of Rose’s blouse lazily, “-are by definition a starchy, tuberous crop from the perennial nightshade _Solanum tuberosum L_ and the term may refer either to the plant itself or to the edible tuber. They are indigenous to the Andes and were introduced outside of the region four centuries ago. ”

Rose arched one eyebrow, and very helpfully undid the next button on her blouse. “You’re starting from the _very_ beginning, are you?”

“Of course. Think of it as payment for that extremely delicious frozen entree you bought for me.”

She nodded, and shrugged one shoulder out of her top. “S’only fair.”

“Indeed.” John brushed his lips along the soft round of her shoulder to her collarbone, and then down to increasingly bared cleavage as his fingers made quick work of her remaining buttons. Her stomach muscles tensed under his mouth as he trailed open-mouthed kisses between each rib, paying special attention to her navel.

“Potatoes are an integral part of much of the world’s food supply and are the world’s fourth-largest food crop. You may also know this delicious root tuber under a variety of different names,” he said, affecting a very Professor-like tone, one that he’d noticed some women seemed to… enjoy. It was beyond him why, exactly, but there was no reason to rally against what worked. She shivered. He took advantage of her distraction to undo the closure of her jeans. Again, she aided him and shoved them down past her hips, eagerly kicking them off her legs.

He stroked her thighs, enjoying the way she arched into his touch, and continued speaking. “For instance, “spud”. A colloquial, some might even say, fanciful term, which is erroneously attributed to to a 19th-century activist group dedicated to keeping the potato out of Britain, calling itself The Society for the Prevention of an Unwholesome Diet, whose acronym describes the  aforementioned name. This is, of course, false. The term actually comes from the name of the tool originally used for digging the holes necessary prior to planting potatoes.”

“That’s amazing, that is,” said Rose, shaking her head slightly.

“Is it my elocution that’s doing it for you,” he asked, licking a line from the inside of one knee down to the soft crease where hip met thigh, “Or are you just a big fan of tuber plants in general?”

She gasped, “ _D-definitely your delivery.”_

—–

_Three weeks later-_

A notification popped up on John’s mobile. His calendar announced that he had an appointment today at two with Vo & Zeinstyk. He had no idea what a Vo or a Zeinstyk was.

“Hairdresser,” said Rose, yawning, when he rang her to ask. “Posh. Long waiting list. My mum goes there. Why?”

“No reason,” he said, feeling morose and trying hard to hide it. Reinette must have arranged it for him months ago without, of course, telling him. She was always doing things like that - passive aggressive ways of indicating to John that she didn’t approve of his clothes, his job, his entire bloody life.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Had a bit of a lie-in. Hoovering later.”

“Exciting stuff for a Sunday afternoon.”

She snorted. “And what are you going to do? Laundry?”

“Already done,” he said. He waited for her to say something, and when she didn’t, he asked, excruciatingly cool, “Need help?”

—–

“You missed a spot,” she said.

“I did not.”

Rose pointed. “There.”

He crouched over her pastel pink throw pillows and stared at the patch of carpet between the sofa and the wall. “I’m pretty sure I already did this bit.”

John looked back over his shoulder, and saw Rose beaming at him. Well. More accurately, at his arse.

“Nice,” he said, pretending to be offended.

“Very,” she teased, and pointed again

A little spark of excitement ignited itself in his belly, but he tried to tamper it down. Rose was his friend now, a really good friend, and he wasn’t just coming around to shag her, arrangement or not.

“You’d better do that bit, too,” she said, pointing again.

“I’m starting to think you just want me to keep bending over.”

“You’re so very clever.” She stood on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek. “Very, very clever and very good at hoovering.”

“Yes, and I ought to be paid for my labour.”

“Yeah?” She wrapped her arms around his neck. “How much do I owe you, then?”

He dropped the vacuum and circled her waist, pulling her closer. “For this level of cleaning? I don’t come cheap, you know, I’m not sure you can afford it.”

“How about a payment plan?”

“Oh no, I expect payment in full, and promptly.”

“How much?”

He named an exorbitant number to see how she would react. Rose bit her lip, clearly trying not to laugh, and exclaimed, “Blimey, you’re more expensive than Alan Ducasse at the Dorchester-”

“Pay up, Miss Tyler.”

“I haven’t got enough money, I’m afraid.”

“That won’t do.”

“Well….” She pretended to think. “What,” Rose paused, and nuzzled his neck, “-else would you-”, her lips moved to his ear, “-accept as payment?”

He turned his head and captured her mouth with his own, letting her know exactly what he considered acceptable. Rose melted against him, submitting sweetly and enthusiastically.

“I suppose we can come to an arrangement,” he murmured, pulling away.

He sat on the sofa, and propped his legs onto the coffee table, never breaking eye contact with Rose. Her eyebrows lifted a fraction, but she said nothing.

“The top has to go,” he said. “Definitely.”

She complied immediately, whipping it over her head and tossing it onto the floor.

“Jeans,” said John. “Goodbye.”

Rose obeyed, shimmying out of tight denim that did her legs all sorts of favours. He still liked them best uncovered, though, preferably with his hands on them. His palm actually twitched, wanting to touch her. She seemed able to read his mind, and dropped to her knees, edging forward until she was kneeling before him. His heart began to accelerate.

“I’ve a better idea,” Rose said idly, tracing fingers along the inseam of his trousers. She flicked her gaze upwards, deliberately touched her tongue to the roof of her mouth, and suggested, “How about I repay you in a bed this time?”

“Creative thinking,” John praised, standing up and helping her to her feet. “I like it. Points for the lady.”

“And more, I hope.” She tugged him forward by the belt loops, giggling in between the kisses he stole from her as they made their way to her bedroom.

She had a nice big bed, tastefully outfitted in floral-printed sheets, and a headboard that, to his mind, was made for him. Rose fell back onto it, and beckoned him towards her. He was definitely amenable to the command and was about to follow when a stupid buzzing in his trouser pocket distracted him.

“Just a sec-”

It was two o’clock. He’d forgotten. John deleted the appointment from his calendar, turned off his mobile, and shoved it into his pocket before dropping his pants.

He climbed onto the bed. Rose pulled her bra off, giving him a lovely view of her gorgeous breasts. To this day he didn’t fully understand how this arrangement had come to pass, but he wasn’t going to complain.

Still, John couldn’t keep from asking, even as he settled himself in the cradle of her thighs - the question blurted itself out, “What’s wrong with my hair?”

Rose eyed his messy quiff critically, and ran her fingers through it at the back of his head, her fingernails scraping his scalp slightly. John shivered, and pressed a kiss to her collarbone.

“Well, it’s a bit long, I s’pose. Nothing too bad, though. I wouldn’t kick you out of bed for it.”

“Good,” he murmured, and licked the spot he’d nipped with his teeth. She squirmed, her breath coming in pants, and pressed his head closer to her wonderful breasts.

Her peaked nipples called to him, so he took one into his mouth, delighting in the soft texture of it and the way Rose reacted. He pinched the other nipple, not wanting to neglect it. A sweet sighing ‘yes’ came from her throat.

“Nice to have something - ahh - to hold onto. When you’re-”

“Well, if you like it,” he said, lining himself up between her legs where she was wet and ready and rubbing impatiently against him, “Then I won’t cut it.”

He thrust, sliding into her as easily as he had done the first time. She felt so good he had to pause for a moment, just to savour the sensation. He withdrew, hissing, feeling her wet heat cling to him, and thrust again, harder this time, one hand gripping the headboard for leverage.

“Fuck,” she moaned, in that needy tone of voice that drove him wild. She tugged at his locks rather roughly, but he found it more of a turn on than anything else.

 _No,_ thought John, devoting himself to the task of making Rose scream, he wasn’t going to change a thing about his hair.

—–

“You’re looking happy.”

The noise of the pub wasn’t quite enough to drown out the suspicious edge to Donna’s statement. John finished ordering his pint and sat down, pretending not to notice her staring a hole into the side of his head. He rubbed his neck, feeling hot under the collar.

Her eyes narrowed. “Is that a hickey?”

 _Oh, shite._ Suddenly the mark that had seemed unbearably sexy - a badge of honour - just minutes ago now felt like a scarlet letter. Rose really did have a way with her mouth.

He cleared his throat. “No.”

“Who’s giving you hickeys?”

“No one!”

“Is that why you were so late getting here?”

“No, I already told you - traffic was horrendous!”

_“John.”_

“Rose Tyler,” he blurted out, caving like a souffle in the oven.

Donna snapped her mouth shut. Then, anti-climatically, “Who?”

“Rose Tyler. You know. From the party. The one you introduced to me.”

“What? Seriously? You’re going out with her? You spent that entire party refusing to even say hello, and now-”

“We’re not dating.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s not like that. It’s just…” he faltered, “Sex.”

Donna’s expression grew even darker.

“It sounds bad when I say it out loud, of course it does,” he said, flustered, and annoyed that he was flustered, “But in reality it isn’t nearly as sordid as you think.”

“It sounds plenty sordid,” Donna retorted and then sighed, heavily. “I suppose it’s only to be expected, you being on the rebound and all.”

He frowned, not liking the way that sounded. _On the rebound._ As if he were a bullet, ricocheting haphazardly, volatile and dangerous. He wasn’t _using_ Rose. He kept up his end of things, made sure she was satisfied, and they had fun together. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had this much fun with _anyone_. Rose was always making him laugh. Sometimes he even forgot he was supposed to be nursing a broken heart.

John turned to his cousin, and said staunchly. “Don’t make a fuss, Donna. It’s fine. We have an arrangement.”

“What arrangement?”

He shrugged. “Like I said… it’s just sex.”

“There’s no such thing,” Donna said. “One person always wants more, and they always get hurt, and it’s _always_ messy in the end.” Her tone implied _it’s going to be you, dumbo._

He resented that. Sure, his past girlfriends usually did the dumping - they left him, or moved on, or found someone else - but that didn’t mean he was always the one who ended up with a broken heart. And Rose was different. She was… she was Rose.


End file.
